


Belong

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Since the ruse, Melvin has wanted to have a spar with the Prince. He gets more than he expected to.





	Belong

Melvin knows he should have gotten suspicious, or at least cautious, when Frances said: “That would be interesting.” But Melvin only agreed without considering the statement carefully. After all, he asked Dandolo for a spar himself, so France was right. Right?

He _should_ have gotten suspicious when he saw Fran sitting on a bench near the training grounds. It is a yard that, Dandolo told him, the Guard uses for exercises, but anyone can come and find a partner if they wish. There is a shooting range nearby, and an area with dummies and equipment for practice with weapons (mostly for spears so favored by the Guard).

The yard is empty, save for France, and that should have gotten him thinking, too, but of course the Prince should be allowed privacy.

Melvin has decided against wearing his uniform and instead opted for a free shirt, Noctian pants (of the variety that is free above the knee and tighter below), and laced sandals. No body wiring, and only one glove on his right hand — a precaution rather than a weapon, since he doesn’t plan on using technomancy. Just some good old CQC.

Dandolo is dressed similarly, a soft shirt of undyed fabric instead of his usual layered (and much more form-fitting) tunics, and short pants that… Melvin looks up quickly. Won’t do to stare.

Then Dandolo removes the sleeves of the shirt, and Melvin can’t _not_ stare. To say that Dandolo has nice arms would be an understatement. They are powerful and laced with scars and tattoos, and it takes Melvin a moment to realize that the scars are _tattooed_ , and not merely _covered_ by tattoos. It is in such a contrast to the markings on Dandolo’s face, so neat in their arrangement. There is a dark spot on his left shoulder, a shadow under the shirt like a big nasty bruise. But it doesn’t seem to bring Dandolo any discomfort.

Melvin thinks on all those talks about Dandolo climbing the walls of the canyon all the way up (which shouldn’t be possible, certainly? the canyons are five kilometers deep!), and he has witnessed how Dandolo climbs the Palace and the cliffs, making it appear like it’s not difficult at all.

Melvin shakes all the thoughts out of his head. He wants this. There is a prickling under his skin. He lunges at Dandolo without preamble…

And ends up on his back faster than he can pronounce Dandolo’s name.

Dandolo is on his feet, his steps soft, circling him. Smiling the soft smile — not the one he wears as the Prince, but his own.

Melvin attacks him again. And again. And once more.

The third time he shakes his head, and sand falls out of his hair as he tries to get up and get the air into his lungs. His whole body is thrumming with excitement.

Oh, he’s looking forward to the ache and the bruises.

He gets to his feet. Dandolo is circling him again, and the smile is now a smirk, making his eyes sparkle.

Fuck.

“Master Melvin?” Fran calls from behind him. The glee in their voice is ridiculously obvious.

Melvin watches Dandolo carefully. “Yes, Chief?”

“Dandolo is very quick!”

“I know that!” The fight during the ruse, when he saw Dandolo in combat, is exactly the reason why Melvin asked for this spar. And it’s turning out better than he expected.

“And he’s a caravaner!”

“I know that, too!”

Dandolo’s smirk is so awfully attractive, and distracting, and Melvin thinks that Dandolo knows that.

“No, you don’t understand, Master Melvin. Caravan is a hard work. D can move a fully loaded heavy ’sail! He is—”

Melvin throws himself at Dandolo again — and finds his fist clamped in fingers that hold him without any problem at all. Dandolo smirks. Oh, he’s…

“—very strong!”

And he’s in the sand again.

At one point Dandolo, seemingly not tired at all (his throws are so powerful, and there is _no_ way Melvin can match him in speed, and he’s so flexible, too, and…), takes off his shirt, and that… That’s…

Well. At least the black spot turns out to be not a bruise at all, but something shiny and wet-looking, like a fresh spill of ink. But Melvin is too distracted by the sight of Dandolo as a whole. So many ink-accented scars and powerful muscles.

Fran is right: Dandolo is built for heavy work, not for show, and somehow, tight tunics conceal all that power. Dandolo looks bigger without clothes.

Melvin cannot tell anymore whether it’s just him, or the atmosphere is really charged — or whether it’s charged because of him.

He’s having so much _fun_.

Dandolo is not even winded, but his skin is glistening with sweat, and that… Melvin’s shirt is pretty soaked, too, and briefly he thinks to take it off, but at the frequency with which he ends up in the sand, he’s going to be covered in—

Dandolo takes a deep breath.

Fuck. Fuck, he’s glad there are no spectators, because he’d chase them away immediately, because _this_. This is just for him.

He hopes.

He makes another attempt, the last, he tells himself, and he’s learned Dandolo a little, and the bout lasts longer than the previous ones, and he doesn’t know whether it’s because Dandolo is toying with him out of sheer joy of movement, or because he’s grown better. He doesn’t care.

He _does_ end up on his back in the sand — but now with Dandolo pinning him thoroughly, thighs spread over his chest, knees pinning his arms. Dandolo is so _heavy_ , and so beautiful, the reflected sunlight making him appear otherworldly even though his weight is very real.

“Enough for you, _corvo_?”

Melvin can’t breathe.

He is pinned down, more by the dark look in Dandolo’s eyes than his body, by Melvin’s own desire, vast and all-consuming.

He was born, bred, raised to serve, to obey without thinking, blindly, a living weapon, with a single purpose. But now, looking at the line of Dandolo’s broad shoulders, the way his muscles roll under glistening skin, the way green eyes gleam with laughter, the shift of tattoo-scars, of that wet thing on his shoulder, knowing the sound of his voice and his breathing, his words, his gestures, his thoughts… He understands why they follow him — out of love, not fear or hopeless apathy.

And Melvin wants to throw his life at Dandolo’s feet, right here — because Dandolo has seen a man in him and not a weapon, because he knows Dandolo would never use him as a weapon.

“Dandolo…” he breathes out, and he wants to… Wants to…

Dandolo shifts, and Melvin is able to bend his arm at the elbow, and he reaches, struggling sweetly against constraints, and places his fingers, bare, on Dandolo’s hip.

Dandolo sucks in a breath from the charge that passes between them, eyelashes fluttering, muscles moving, Shadow, he’s so alive, and full of life, and Melvin is stricken by the revelation that Dandolo likes his touch.

Fuck.

Dust is clinging to the both of them, and pulsating coils of desire are wrapped tight around them, and the sand under Melvin’s back is hot and feels like he can tell apart every grain. And he doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t have to.

Dandolo moves off him, gets up, and offers his hand. Melvin grips it tight as Dandolo hauls him up with no effort at all.

And he just… wraps his arms around Dandolo. His powerful body shifting under Melvin’s hand. “Caught you.”

Dandolo’s hand is in his hair, gentle. “Yes. You have.”

They stand like that until Fran throws a handful of sand at them and tells them in a laughing voice that they should get a room.


End file.
